


Bees

by Trickkyy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blogging, Character Death, Cute, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson's Blog, M/M, POV John Watson, Retirement!lock, Sad, Sad Ending, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:27:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trickkyy/pseuds/Trickkyy
Summary: 998.The number still plagues my mind now when I flip through his old journal - tally marks filling two whole pages with a small space at the bottom for more.998 close calls when he would run into the house, dressed down in his garb with turtle neck shirts and two layers of gloves on his hands. His face would be beet red with sweat trailing down his flushed face with an excited, warm and child-like smile beaming right at me.





	Bees

**//*Blog entry posted by John H. Watson on 8/13/2052*\\\**

 

**998.**

**The number still plagues my mind now when I flip through his old journal - tally marks filling two whole pages with a small space at the bottom for more.**

**998.**

**998 close calls when he would run into the house, dressed down in his garb with turtle neck shirts and two layers of gloves on his hands. His face would be beet red with sweat trailing down his flushed face with an excited, warm and child-like smile beaming right at me. My heart would race and swell at the sight - feeling as if I was thirty seven again, walking through those doors of Bart's with a cane in my hand and a snarky comment on my tongue.**

**For his fortieth birthday I had gotten him a book. The Beekeepers Bible. Of course, he had always been fascinated by them - the bees - reading pages and pages of information on his laptop before relaying all of the information to me. I would sit there and nod, basking in all of his glory before I would get an eye roll in return and a "Do pay attention, John", like a teen being caught ogling.**

**I proposed a week later.**

**-**

**Rosie was around six at the time, and we had been settling down as a real family when he slid a sheet of paper over to me while also handing me a cup of tea. To be honest I had no idea at the time what was on it, but after unfolding the neatly folded edges I blinked up at him in surprise. I will never forget the face he had given me, gauging my thoughts as time went by. His eyes roamed over my face as if trying to process what I might say. But nothing came out. I had just sat there looking at the sheet and then meeting his worried gaze. "We need to think ahead, John" he had said. And I nodded.**

**The retirement lot which he bought (with a little incentive from Mycroft's part) was located in Sussex, right by the shore line. We had a beautiful view and a gorgeous acer of land with a cute cottage that sat atop a field. It was like one of those homes you only read about in fairy tale novels and see in movies. All in all it was beautiful. Still is.**

**We had decided to move south once Rosie had graduated from college and found a flat just outside London with her fiancée. Sherlock had some trouble leaving the city, as did I; saying our goodbyes to all of our friends and especially our little girl. Sherlock had spent that afternoon locked up either in our bedroom or the loo, while I would sit outside, just patiently waiting and listening for when he called me. When he did emerge, however, it was an emotional mess of lovemaking and crying and then loving some more. I don't think either of us would have changed it for the world.**

**Moving had been a challenge. It's true when they say that you never really know how much you own until you pack up and go. With the amount of boxes in total, majority of Sherlock's experiments which he insisted we kept, our new home was filled to the ceiling like a cardboard city. That unfortunately took a month to sort through. Some stuff I did in fact get rid of. I'm sorry, love.**

**-**  

**A couple years went by before he approached me on the subject. The subject that was apparently eating at his innards and supplying infinite giddiness like a child. He wanted bees. He had went out and bought loads of equipment the night that I finally gave in - of course he had tricked me while having sex - and the next day even starting building a shed outside to house it. "Two weeks" he would tell me, "two weeks until my bees get here, John." I remember grinning and shaking my head at him like a lovesick puppy.**

**It was one night while watching telly on the sofa in the quiet confines of our cottage when he had looked up from his favourite book, glasses positioned on his nose, as he read a direct excerpt from- "Chapter 13, page 11, _'A human can safely withstand ten stings per pound of body weight. The average adult can withstand more than a thousand_.'" I had just hummed in recognition while my show held most of my attention.**

**That was my error.**

**When they had arrived, Sherlock was dressed like it was winter - long sleeve shirt buttoned all the way up, trousers, gloves, his work boots, and a wide brim hat that covered most of his head. I laughed at the sight of him at the time, wondering why in bloody hell he would wear such an outfit when the weather ranged higher then 30°. He fluffed me off then, rushing over instead to sign the papers and get everything in order while the workers were setting up the bee houses.**

**That night I remember asking him about it. He just looked at me with wide eyes, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. At the time I really had no idea why he acted that way at all. But then he grinned at me. A snarky little grin when he said to me, "I'm going to beat the records. Avoid being stung." I laughed.**

**Years went by where each morning he would go and take care of his bees. At lunch I would fetch us up something small and quaint for lunch and then head on out to our patio. He would join me, plant a sweet kiss on my cheek while I tousled his grey hair with a smile. We would sit there for hours just looking at the horizon, hands entwined and just enjoying the life we had lived. At night, we would sit there reminiscing the times where we would run after criminals and solve crimes. The times where we would hold onto our stomachs as the laugher rolled out of us after coming home from a case. The times where we would just wholly enjoy each other's company.**

**Of course all of that would come back full swing the next day when the topic would solely be about his bees. Each day he would get up in that ridiculous attire and set out, coming back to the kitchen with several stingers in his suit, all upset and sulking about the bees who had died because they thought him a threat.**

**I should have known.**

**One day Sherlock had ran into the house and straight to our bedroom tugging at his clothes and ripping them off in a panic. I was reading my book on the bed and sat up right away asking if he was hurt, if he was alright. My poor love had a panic attack on the spot before he was bare naked like the day he was born, examining every inch of his body. I tried to ask him what the hell was going on but he fluffed me off once again, making up some excuse or another that it** **was nothing. And so he got dressed once again, gave me a quick kiss for reassurance, and fled to his bees.**

**"855," he would say, "855 stings and I have not been hit by one once." I should have paid attention.**

**For his seventy-fifth I got him a dog. Gladstone. He had cried when he saw her pop out from the present box she was stored in, and I had cried with him. She was a small little thing, a beagle with big floppy ears which she loves to get scratched. Of course, I'm not saying she picked favourites between the two of us, but on more than one occasion I found her nestled up on my feet when I would doze on the sofa. Sherlock loved her all the same.**

**Gladstone was a blessing....and a curse.**

**It was an afternoon in July, the weather was lovely and all was well. I was in the kitchen making up some lemonade when Sherlock had just returned with Gladstone after her walk. She had always been one to run when she was a pup, chasing anything that moved and roaming relentlessly when she got bored. Like owner, like dog. Sherlock had decided to tie her leash to the leg of our patio chair and clean up a bit before tending to his bees.**

**That's when it happened.**

**Gladstone had somehow managed to get herself free and decided to bolt for the bee houses as a way for entertainment. Sherlock had noticed right away and made a beeline for her, chasing her down. But of course she was too fast for him. Gladstone had knocked over two of the houses when the swarms started to get agitated and chase her. With Sherlock sweating profusely trying to run after her, and Gladstone finally listening to his calls, the swarm was already at him. My heart had stopped beating that second when he fell to the ground.**

**I should have asked.**

**I had called 999 before running to my first aid kit and then bolting out the back door to him. I could hear the ragged breathing and short gasps as his lungs cried for air. How could I have not known? After living with this man for over thirty years of my life and I had not known?**

**It was in the span of those mere minutes I had grabbed him, carrying him back to the house and laying him on the lino, when he grabbed my shaking hand in his own, looking at me with those tear filled and swollen eyes that he mouthed three simple words. _I love you._**

**It was 14:00pm on July the 13th when my husband, Sherlock Holmes's heart stopped beating. He had died from a severe allergic reaction which he carried all his life and could have been prevented. He had avoided 998 stings. One had rendered the reaction, the second ... was fatal.**

**I will never forget that day, nor the days we had spent together running around London. He was a wonderful man, a wonderful husband, and an extraordinary father. He was my love, and my life.**  

**The day of our wedding he had made a vow, his second last vow since his first, that if anything should happen, he would never leave me. Would remain right at my side until the end. He kept his vow....the bloody bastard didn't wait for me though.**

**This will be my last blog entry, I've only kept it up for those of you who have wondered where I've been for the past month. By now you've all read the papers and have now finished reading this.**

**Rosie. I love you. I know I say it every day when you phone, but I'll say it now so you have it in writing. Whatever happens, your pa and me are so proud of you and the woman you have become.**

**So very, very much.**

 

**\- John Hamish Watson-Holmes**

 

***

 

John powered down his laptop, sitting back further in his chair while tears threatened his eyes. He let them roll down his wrinkled cheeks as he just sat there staring at the black screen.

It had been a month since the incident. John was getting sicker as the days went by and Rosie would make sure to call him at least once a day to check up on his progress. She had insisted on multiple occasions that he should hire a nurse, but John brushed off the subject, changing it entirely. He was dying. He could just feel it almost every morning he woke up, feeling the weight that sorrow brought and how his body got weaker and weaker when he purposely left meals untouched.

John closed the screen and got up from his chair, making his way to the coat rack to grab his jacket and a cap. He made his way to the garden outside, picking some of the wildflowers the both of them had planted several months back, before walking down to the edge of their property by the water.

Right on the edge stood a rocky tombstone with the name _William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes_ engraved in it. Just below were the words: loving husband and father, and the date of his extraordinary, but late life. Every day John would come to visit, brining flowers or even a glass of lemonade and ginger snaps (Sherlock's favourite) to set beside the gravestone, as he just talked. For hours he would sit there, and for hours he would cry.

On this particular occasion, John had noticed that there was a small honey bee that was sticking around, resting itself on the top of the gravestone. John just grimaced and kept his distance, sitting down at the foot of it and just watching.

"Odd for you to visit," he scoffed "since you were the one that did this to him." The bee didn't move at all, just sat there rubbing it's legs together. 

 John couldn't get rid of the bee houses no matter how hard he tried. Every time he looked at them it would get him angry and upset, but he couldn't part with the thing that Sherlock had enjoyed so much. It was maddening.

John gently rested the flowers he had picked, grabbing the ones from yesterday and throwing them away, "I brought some fresh ones, love."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and imagining a cheeky response from his lover, letting out a teary chuckle.

Just then, John heard a small buzz and quickly opened his eyes, watching as the small bee slowly descended to the wildflowers now resting against the gravestone. His gut clenched at the sight and was about to wave his hands and shoo it away from his husbands flowers when all of a sudden the bee began to pollinate. John froze, eyes blown wide as he watched the tiny insect do it's duty. The bee paced around the flower before storing the pollen and moving to the next flower. When it was finished it stayed rested on a petal and just sat there, as if just watching.

John sat there staring at it, confused as to why it had stopped instead of flying back to the houses. He had stayed there and just managed to wipe the sweat from his brow and reposition his hat when he felt feather light movements on his arm. John froze once again, avoiding sudden shifts, as he stared down at the little yellow and black bugger that now rested on his forearm.

"Sherlock" he choked, the tears in his eyes now streaming down his cheeks.

The bee began to clean his feet again at the comment, rubbing them together until he paused and rested once again.

John's heart broke at the sight and he sobbed, not even trying to hold back the emotions that raked through his body. It was as if the bee was a sign. A sign that his husband was still here with him, and he smiled.

They remained that way for a time, before the bee flew back to the houses and John scooted his way so he now leaned against his husbands gravestone, looking on to their cottage. "We've done good, Holmes" he smiled, yawning as his eyes began to grow heavier and his heart beat slower.

The wind gently flowed through the tall grass and the sun remained beating down and creating a warm glow, gracing the day with such beauty. Looking on, John tipped his hat over his eyes and closed them, grinning to himself as he felt himself being carried away.

"I'll be seeing you very soon, my love. Very soon indeed."

 

***

  
**//*Latest blog update made by Rosamund Watson-Holmes on 8/17/2052*\\\**

 

**For those of you who are unaware, my father, John H. Watson-Holmes passed away four days ago of natural causes. Doctors have said it was from a broken heart, his body slowly shutting down due to bouts of depression.**

**I'm sorry to report that this blog will now be inactive but you will all still be able to read his stories and reports on both him and my papa.**

**They both are loved dearly and will be missed.**

**-Rosie**

**Author's Note:**

> *information on bees and stings were off the internet, not an actual passage from the Beekeepers Bible.*
> 
> I'm sorry. This is what happens when i'm at home with the flu - i write sad ass stuff.


End file.
